


Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori

by everysinglefuckingusernameistakenjesus



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi, The Hamilsquad - Freeform, death is literally a character, literally just me mentally torturing alex for a bit don't even worry about it dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 15:09:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10192646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everysinglefuckingusernameistakenjesus/pseuds/everysinglefuckingusernameistakenjesus
Summary: Her eyes poured into his as she placed something in his palm before wrapping his fingers around it. It was metal and slightly weighted. He’d felt too many of these in his hand not to know what it was blindly. It was a bullet. She had handed him a bullet. He fiddled with the object between his forefinger and his thumb, feeling every divot and dent in it.“You’re going to kill me.” He said. It was a statement rather than a question.“No.” She replied. Her voice was a chilling alto. It sent shivers up his spine. “I will not kill you. A friend and an enemy will. All I will do is carry you to the next life. Not now, but I will come for you when it is your time. That is the bullet that will kill you and I am that bullet.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> A little idea that I had after I found out who and what the bullet was in Hamilton. If you guys don't know, it's this sort of concept character who spends the whole play foreshadowing death, especially that of Hamilton's. It's just a really cool concept that I adore and wanted to pay a little tribute to. The title is Latin and it mean "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country." I edited myself, so any mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

He imagined death so much it felt more like a memory. He said that many times throughout his life to the many people that decorated it, mostly himself when he found his mind wandering down dark paths late at night. He said it to Laurens one day when they sat alone at their desks, writing letters fervently in the hope that they would one day make a difference. Laurens hadn’t responded verbally, but he reached across the desks and wrapped his fingers around Alexander’s wrists, grave, sympathetic eyes, that seemed to say ‘I do too.’ He told the General once during one of their many long conversations about the future of their nation, the art of war, and what it meant to be a leader. When the General heard this, he locked his eyes on Alexander and placed his hand firmly on his shoulder before whispering the words ‘don’t you dare.’ He told Eliza when she was curled up against his side one night when it was exceptionally cold and their only source of warmth in their tiny apartment in Harlem was each other. He whispered it in her ear along with the thousands of sweet nothings that he whispered to her every night to lull her to sleep. She most likely didn’t hear him clearly, but she moved even closer to him, if it was possible and he began to feel like they were one person instead of two. Those three were all holding onto him so desperately, as if they knew that he was the water that slipped through their fingers. He was destined for death, not in the way that everyone is, but in a deeper, primal level, as though everything that he was to do in his life was in preparation for his passing. From the moment he was born, he knew that he was not long for this earth. Where he came from, not many children as sickly as he lived past the age of ten. He never expected get past twenty, a lifetime to someone from his home. The world was never kind to him. He’d brushed past Death many times, and every time that he did, he could feel her cold fingertips leading him away, little by little, one moment at a time. 

He was dreaming when he really saw her from the first time. Maybe it was the haze of exhaustion from the battlefield or the sight of his friends and comrades falling left and right, but he had fallen into a feverish dream while writing a letter to congress. At first he thought he was watching the back of his eyelids like he usually did when he slept (he rarely dreamt these days, not sleeping long enough to slip into the dream world), but he soon became acutely aware that the darkness was actually a thick, grayish smoke swirling around him. He could feel it pass through him, as though his body was gone and he was nothing but a specter. His pulse quickened at the thought. He began walking forward through the smoke, hoping to find some sort of exit from this dream (he knew it was a dream because when he pinched the ends of his jacket between his fingers, he couldn't feel the fabric and he was fairly certain that he had been at his desk when he fell asleep, not in a void of nothingness), but no matter how far he traversed, he was still in the same spot. He figured that he was going to be in this void for however long he slept. How boring. That’s when he saw her. She emerged from the smoke little by little. He saw the blue of her coat at first, proving that she was friend, not foe, but even still he jumped to attention at the sudden company and felt for his loyal pistol, which was missing from his side. Next, he saw her face, which was dark and soft and would have looked friendly had it not been for the eeriness of their circumstances. He couldn’t see all of her until she stood only a foot away from him, caramel eyes trained on his form. She was small, maybe two heads shorter than him, and her thin form offered no threat. And yet, she inspired such fear in him. She was more powerful that her appearance put forth. He knew that he was right to fear her. She studied him for a long moment, trailing her eyes up and down his body, not in the way that Eliza or John did, but in the way that a scientist inspects their specimen before cutting them open to see what was inside. His heart skipped in his chest. 

As he looked at all of her, a realization struck him. It struck him in a different way than most seemed to. Usually, he would get an idea and jump up with energy to get it onto paper before he forgot it in the drown of thoughts and ideas that ran through his mind, but here, it felt as though he had actually been stricken. It felt as though someone had driven their first into his stomach and knocked all of the air out of his lungs. He had seen her before. When he was young and when he was sick. When his mother died, he had seen her for only a moment. She had passed by him and cupped his cheek before she seemed to realize that she wasn’t there for him, but his mother instead. He had screamed for the woman who had taken his mother for days and days, but as he grew older, he thought it was just a trick of the fever. But it was so clear now. He had seen her again when the hurricane came. He was trapped in his house as it filled with water, screaming for help. The waves washed over him one by one and his breaths became more water than air. He saw her walking towards him, impervious to the wind or the crashing waves or the wreckage. She looked at him for only a moment before moving past him, dislodging the door in the process, and sending him tumbling to the sea awaiting him outside his house. He forgot about her again in time, the bodies floating in the water heavily outweighing the memory of a strange girl. She had been there when he was on the battlefield with the general. No one was safe in battle, any moment could be his last. A bullet just missed him and embedded itself into the head of the soldier to his left. He saw her from the corner of his eye, but she looked like just another soldier in her colors. Dear God, she had been standing next to Laurens, what if he was next? What if she took his dear John? She was Death, chasing after him at every turn in life, just barely missing him, but waiting around the corner for the right time. For his time. 

She saw the realization in his face and she stepped forward and cupped his hard in hers. They were so cold, as cold as ice and death. Her eyes poured into his as she placed something in his palm before wrapping his fingers around it. It was metal and slightly weighted. He’d felt too many of these in his hand not to know what it was blindly. It was a bullet. She had handed him a bullet. He fiddled with the object between his forefinger and his thumb, feeling every divot and dent in it. He didn’t dare look at it, though, didn’t dare take his eyes off of her, for fear she might take him then and there. She just stood in front of him with her hands at her side silently waiting for him to react. It took him a moment to force the words out of his throat. 

“You’re going to kill me.” He said. It was a statement rather than a question. She had known for a long time and she was simply taking the courtesy of clueing him in. He felt deeply betrayed despite having no friendly ties with this woman. 

“No.” She replied. Her voice was a chilling alto. It sent shivers up his spine. “I will not kill you. A friend and an enemy will. All I will do is carry you to the next life. Not now, but I will come for you when it is your time. That is the bullet that will kill you and I am that bullet.” Her identity at last. The Bullet. He breathed for a moment, knowing that he wasn’t dying now. It was so strange, he had imagined death almost like a fantasy his whole life, but now that he was in the midst of the most dangerous time in his life, he was desperate to escape it. Now he knew why Death felt so familiar. She had been following him his whole life. He must have been bad luck of some sort, he thought, because everyone that he loved ended up in her clutches. He thought briefly about Eliza, John, and the General and wondered if it would be the same for them. She must have read his mind. “I will claim two of them before I come for you, but the other must live for fifty years wondering if they could have saved you from the fate that has been paved for you since the beginning.” His heart clenched. 

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, voice breaking on the words. He was close to tears, he could tell. He didn’t want to cry in front of her. She smirked at his question and shook her head, tuft of curls bouncing slightly against her forehead. She was beautiful in a terrifying way. She reminded him of Eliza in the way that she moved, soft, slow, peaceful. He supposed that she looked the way that he wanted her to look and he was momentarily ashamed that she didn’t look like his dear wife. He had no more time for thought, however, as her eyes snapped up to meet his suddenly, frightening him. She shaped her fingers into a mock gun and stepped forward, pressing them right between the ribs. She lifted her eyes once again and said one word;

“Boom.” 

He awoke with a start to the General shaking his shoulder and calling his name. He was obviously shaken, and he tried to hide his expression in shame. It wasn’t until he raised his hand to his face that he realized that he was crying. He was crying in front of the general. He didn’t dare look up to gage his reaction. 

“Son,” the general said softly, in the most comforting voice that Alexander had ever heard, “is everything alright?” There was genuine concern bathing his tone and Alexander’s chest warmed. 

“Yes sir.” He replied, rubbing his eyes. “I just had a very strange dream.”


End file.
